


music of the night

by doriangrays (orphan_account)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Anachronistic, Love Triangles, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19058401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/doriangrays
Summary: dong sicheng is an up and coming young performer on the stage of paris under the tutelage of an unseen musical genius who makes him his muse.





	1. the prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "long ago, it seems so long ago, how young and innocent we were."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Over the course of the next few months I'll be writing a Phantom of the Opera AU; updates will come when inspiration does, so it might not follow a fixed schedule.

When Sicheng thinks back on childhood, he thinks first of his father's laughter and the steady cadence of a light voice, narrating to him a bedtime story by the humming gas lamp.

 

_ No-- what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head. _

 

He thinks of a boy with golden hair and sharp nose and a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

 

He thinks of the lake villa that he had then yet to realize wasn't his true home, with its rocaille decor and the gardens that glowed with pastel blossoms in the spring, and jewel-toned flowers in the summertime. He thinks of youthful shouting and the earthy scent of grass, warm weight jostling him over and under and over again as he wrestled and tumbled about with his friend, the Vicomte’s son.

 

He thinks of when he was eight and the other boy was ten, the both of them all lanky angles and gap-toothed smiles, and the smell of honeysuckle and grass and sunlight as they leaned in, bumping foreheads and noses with giggles. That was his first kiss.

 

It was sweet and innocent, a mere press of the lips that lasted for no more than a moments, and after they pulled away, Sicheng had smiled, linked his fingers with the other boy and then kissed him again, this time on his cheek.

 

That was his last happy memory of childhood.

 

They raced each other back to the house as the sun waned into ripples of gold over the lake, and it was there that the staff was rushing about, voices rising up in murmurs and shouts by turn that Sicheng couldn't understand. 

 

What he could understand, though, was the chaos, and that alone had frightened the ball of intuition in his stomach into roiling like a stormy sea. He squeezed the other's hand tightly, two errant children standing on the threshold of the mudroom.

 

A maid finally saw the two boys lingering in the doorway, and it was she who knelt down before Sicheng and laid a soft hand on his shoulder.

 

"Sicheng, your father collapsed," she says. “He had an-- attack of apoplexy,” the maid continued, as if she expected Sicheng to understand what it meant.

 

"Oh," Sicheng's hand feels like a dead weight, his palm growing slick. There’s a whirring in his head, blood rushing through his ears in the hurried convulsions of his heart. It sounds like an angry ocean tide. Lips numb, he had asked. "Is he gonna be okay?"

 

She shakes her head. That's all he remembers in full-- the rest comes in little segments and flickers. He remembers the way the hardwood floor dug into his knees as he had fallen to them. He remembers the sensation of pain beneath his ribcage.

 

He remembers the Vicomte handing him a bag.

 

_ “There is no place for you here anymore, _ ” he had declared.

 

A hand clenched tight in his.

 

_ “Remember me, please. Promise? _ ”

 

A slow carriage ride, silence punctuated only by his sobbing.

 

A dour brick building, an equally grim old man standing out front.

 

Sicheng had eventually found his happiness again, though the time passed in between was worse than any he had experienced before. The first year at the orphanage was brutal-- a winter's shadow suddenly falling over the perpetual summer he had lived till that point. The children banded together against this newcomer, this quiet and refined boy raised alongside a Vicomte's heir, and they treated him with disdain and even cruelty. No one would claim him as theirs, and Sicheng quickly mastered the skill of being lonely.

 

He was always a fast pupil, after all, and was once praised for it.

 

He learned how not to cry even when he wished to tear his own heart out to stop it from aching at the blunt rejections and the crass whispers. He learned to keep his balance when someone tripped him in the dining hall to laughter from the other children. He learned to muffle his nighttime sobbing, mindful of the thin walls, locking the room to his closet-sized room and shoving the blankets into his mouth, sniffling till his tears were spent and his blanket was damp from the spit and the tears.

 

Even now, he wonders if knowing the torment would only last a year and a day would have made it easier to bear. His salvation came in the form of an imposing looking lady, scarlet silk dress a marked contrast against the threadbare linen uniforms of the orphanage.

 

Behind her trailed a boy with wide eyes in white and navy cotton. Sicheng’s throat itched with envy, and the eyes of the other children turned wolfish.

 

It was all too easy to predict what happened next-- the woman turned to one of the orderlies, who apparently just nodded at everything requested. Sicheng had nearly forgotten how much appearances spoke, just as loudly as money or names did, but was keenly reminded by the way the orderly bowed and then gestured the woman out the doorway.

 

She pressed a kiss to the top of her son’s head before she left him there, and Sicheng heard her say, “Jaehyun, I will be discussing with the orphanage director. Play with the other children for a bit, all right?”

 

The boy nodded his tawny head obediently and said, “Yes, mama.”

 

The door to the common room swung shut.

 

Starveling eyes turned to the boy, Jaehyun, hungry for tears, hungry for fear.

 

The boy did not notice anything wrong at first, merely smiles and waves to them, toothy grin on display and a dimple poking into the curve of his cheek.

 

“I’m Jaehyun.”

 

Sicheng had forgotten a face could still be soft. Most of the children of the orphanage never knew at all what it was like for flesh to be so pliant.

 

Tension thrummed once, and then had cut away sharply as the string of it stretched taut. Jaehyun’s smile dropped away like watery gruel from a spoon. He twisted in a half circle to look at the children who amassed around him, eyes agog at the fine cotton of his suit, the cleanliness of the white, the richness of the blue, with hostility and curiosity warring each other in the air, two wolves battling for dominance.

 

Sicheng was the first to make for the boy, the first to have spoken to him. “Do you read?”

 

Jaehyun turned towards him with an expression of surprise. “Oh, yes! I like reading, it’s so lovely. Do you?”

 

“Would you like to see the books?” Sicheng asked, watching as out of the periphery of his eye, the crowd disperses in apathy. After the first six months of tormenting Sicheng, he’d become so immune to the barbs that the others had decided to move onto easier targets. Jaehyun had been given the boon of Sicheng’s protection in that instant.

 

He nodded. “I think I’d like that very much.”

 

“Come with me to the library, then,” Sicheng had said, grasping him by his elbow and pulling him out of the common room, perhaps a bit too briskly and forcefully, Jaehyun stumbling along after him on legs unfamiliar to the terrain of cracked and creaking floorboards. “I’m Sicheng, by the way.”

 

They ventured past the yellowed curtains of the main hallway, and down a winding hall where behind open door after shut door after open door lay classrooms. Sicheng lead him down the hall till there was nowhere else to go, and then turned to open the final door to the left.

 

The library of the orphanage was in the same state of disrepair as the rest of the place, but Sicheng had felt enchanted by it nonetheless. The door shuts behind them, and the resulting breeze fluttered a few stray pages from books that had been settled haphazardly on a table closest to the door.

 

The shelves lined a space only about twenty paces wide, neatly fitting the two boys-- Sicheng trailing ahead into the narrow aisles and Jaehyun following gingerly after him, eyes wide and uncertain.

 

“What’s your favorite story?” Sicheng heard Jaehyun ask.

 

Sicheng paced further into the labyrinth of books, the ancient covers in tatters and binding fallen to pieces. Finally, he reached a space where the dust had gathered so thickly that he could see the etchings of his own footsteps across the layers of it.

 

A jewel-red book is wedged in between two encyclopedias, the brilliance of the cover shining in between the muted tans and greys of the dust-encoated volumes.

 

“Here it is,” Sicheng declared, reaching a gentle hand to dislodge it from its place and handing it over to Jaehyun. “The Angel of Music.”

 

Jaehyun turned it over in his hand appraisingly. “What’s it about?”

 

“Father once told me this story,” Sicheng sighed, glancing at the cover, running his hand over it lovingly. “At night when the orphan girl sleeps, into her dreams comes an angel, who teaches her to sing.”

 

Jaehyun nodded, enthralled, and he had opened his mouth to speak before-- “Jaehyun?” called a sharp voice.

 

“That’s my mother,” said the boy. “Would you like to come meet her?”

 

Sicheng had shrugged, and Jaehyun smiled, before he had headed for the door. “Please, could you show me out? I have no clue where anything is.”

 

He offered Jaehyun a rare smile and assented.

 

“Jaehyun?” the voice called again, as Sicheng led Jaehyun past the classrooms, down the hallway with the yellowed curtains, floorboards creaking under their feet.

 

“Mama,” Jaehyun grinned at the woman, who despite her icy exterior and impeccable poise had reciprocated Jaehyun’s hug and smile, patting her son on the head. “Meet Sicheng. He took me to see the books.”

 

Sicheng’s eyes had gone wide as the woman held out her hand to him. “Hello-- Madame,” he stuttered, the formalities of living in the household of the Vicomte returning suddenly to him. He shook her hand, and then sighed in relief when the woman smiled back at him.

 

The curve of Jaehyun’s eyes were the same as hers, and Sicheng finds himself relaxing a bit more. The woman scanned him over and then turned to the orderly. “Please inform Monsieur Director that we will be fostering Sicheng with us starting today.”

 

“Madame Jung,” the orderly had protested in a stammer, “Surely these must take time before they can be confirmed.”

 

Sicheng blinked rapidly, glancing at Jaehyun, who had since gravitated to his side. “Mama says you can leave here with us if you’d like.”

 

“But--” Sicheng had frowned, then tried to smile, the myriad of emotions and expressions having grown unfamiliar in their year of disuse.

 

“Would you like to?” Jaehyun asked.

 

That at least was easy to answer; Sicheng nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

 

“If the boy agrees, then we shall be on our way then,” Madame Jung declared grandly. “Please help Sicheng gather his things and we will be on our way. I’ll return with the proper paperwork within a half-week’s time.”

 

Sicheng gawked at Jaehyun and then at his mother, the other boy growing the inklings of a proud smile across his features.

 

“You heard, her, boy,” the orderly finally barked. “You’ll be leaving, so pack up all your stuff.”

 

That snapped Sicheng out of his stupor, and Madame Jung had nudged her son gently as Sicheng clambered upstairs, Jaehyun following close behind.

 

“You’re going to come live with us,” Jaehyun gushed as Sicheng raced down the hallway on light feet and threw open the door to his room.

 

The dingy space, with its itchy cot and threadbare blankets was something Sicheng would never have to see again. He would not have to duck his head down and take his meals in the library to avoid the mockery of the other children. Sicheng laughed in sheer exuberance. “I’m leaving.”

 

“You’re leaving,” Jaehyun parroted back.

 

Sicheng opened his closet, threw the carpetbag on his bed, and then unhung the half-dozen sets of clothing that were inside, folding them meticulously into the bag over a box at its base, tucking the book on top of it. “And I’m never coming back,” he declared as he finished packing.

 

“Come on,” Jaehyun said, opening the door for him as Sicheng hauled the bag downstairs and out the double doors of the orphanage.

 

Madame Jung was awaiting them outside with a carriage, and Sicheng nearly vaulted into the space, all too eager to be away from the prison of grey brick.

 

This carriage ride was the polar opposite of the one that brought him to the orphanage a year before, where the world seemed to get dimmer and less saturated with each step of the horse. This carriage ride was Madame Jung’s indulgent smile as Sicheng and Jaehyun giggled back and forth, the merry tamping of hooves against gravel that eventually changed to clopping against cobblestone.

 

Sicheng leaned forward to peer out the window at the sudden different rhythm and sound that, and then he shouted, “We’re in the heart of Paris! There’s so many buildings! There’s so many people!” He continued his exclamations as the sights passed him by-- earthy colored buildings of every shade of brown, people milling the streets, tricolor banners hanging from balconies, emerald green trees castling mottled lavender shadows across the boulevard. “It’s so beautiful…”

 

“Welcome to Paris,” Jaehyun said with a grin. “You’ll see our home sometime soon.”

 

Sicheng continued to stare in awe, gaze never faltering till the carriage comes to an eventual stop.

 

“Sicheng,” said Madame Jung. “We have arrived.”

 

“Oh!” the boy startled away from the window, realizing that Jaehyun and Madame Jung had both disembarked, the woman holding his bag for. “Sorry,” his cheeks pinkened.

 

Such embarrassment was lost once again as he takes in the sheer size and grandness of the building in front of him, with its gilded flourishes and marble columns, the facade embossed with marble laurels-- even the Vicomte’s manor faded in comparison to this. “Is this your home?” he asked slowly.

 

“We live within an apartment inside,” Madame Jung had clarified. “This is the Paris Opera House.”

 

She offered out her hand, and he took it; Jaehyun took her other one and they ascended the steps to the opera house together with a bag in hand.

 

The interior is just as grand as the exterior, yet Madame Jung kept brisk pace-- Sicheng gave up on trying to look around him and catch everything, merely letting the halls pass in blurs of gold and rose and pearl. Finally, she reached a door, and let go of the boys, turning a key that lead into a stairwell.

 

There are gas lamps that illuminate the walls every half-rotation of the spiral; the rest of the curve is kept in darkness, a sharp chiaroscuro painting the space.

 

Madame Jung descended.

 

Sicheng followed after, and Jaehyun brought up the rear; they bypassed a landing, and then continued down once more.

 

Three landings down from the ground floor of the opera house with no further stairs to descend, Madame Jung finally stopped and then took out her ring of keys again, unlocking the door and pushing it open, gesturing Sicheng and Jaehyun in.

 

"Make yourself at home," she had said, sweeping into the subterranean apartment. Sicheng had paced in several steps before he felt his throat tighten. The space did not-- still doesn't-- match the splendor of the opera house proper, but it was so  _ cozy _ and warm, all burgundies and russets and butter-whites offset by gentle golden lamps.

 

Sicheng blinked only once before the tears spilled over, and in the next instant, Madame Jung is rubbing soothing circles onto his back.

 

It felt like a  _ home _ , something he was sure that after his father’s death he would never be able to have again. The feeling was enough to crack the dam he had built against his emotions in the year since his father’s death; he sobbed against Madame Jung’s shoulder for quite some time till the wave abated.

 

Once he had stopped his weeping, Madame brushed his hair from his face and then said, “Jaehyun, show Sicheng to one of the rooms. I have to go to the rehearsals, but I will be back within three hours.”

 

“Yes, Mama,” Jaehyun replied obediently, and then stepped forward to tug at Sicheng’s hand, the one that still held his bag. “Come, Sicheng.”

 

They made their way around the couch and down a short hallway; Jaehyun pointed to the room at the very end, with its lock on the door. “Don’t go in there,” he’d said. “Mama said it’s an empty pit when we first moved in. She closed it off so I wouldn't crawl into it.”

 

“All right,” Sicheng nodded.

 

With the concession having been made, Jaehyun pushed open a door on one side of the hallway. He stepped forward, fumbling about in the dimness before there was the sound of a click, and then a bronze glow was cast over the room.

 

The gaslamp had cast a flash like lightning over the end of the room, a silver mirror reflecting back from against the wall. Intricate brass and copper laurels entwined across a frame that stretches from floor to ceiling; Sicheng saw his as well as Jaehyun's, silhouettes against the glass, distorted from the distance.

 

He crossed over the threshold to stand beside Jaehyun, who gestured outwards expansively towards the tidy bed, the wide wardrobe, the mirror, all of it, and said, "This will be your room."

 

Sicheng took all of it in and nodded. "Thank you."

 

"It's no problem," Jaehyun grinned, the dimpled cheek making its return. "I'm right across the hall from you and Mama's room is next to mine."

 

Sicheng had nodded before Jaehyun enwrapped him in a hug, letting out a soft  _ oof _ at the force of the impact.

 

"We're going to be such good friends," he gushed.

 

Friend was a word he had not seen in a long time in anywhere but a book, and to have heard Jaehyun say it so earnestly filled his chest with a bubble of something light. "I hope so," he finally responded.

 

"Come," Jaehyun said, grabbing onto Sicheng's wrist like Sicheng had done to him earlier that day. "Mama doesn't mind if we watch the rehearsals."

 

Sicheng let himself be pulled along out of the subterranean apartment, up the staircase again, venturing out into the daylight.

 

Jaehyun was skipping along with practiced ease, knowing exactly which hall and which corridor to turn, Sicheng following after him, attempting to recall the routes in this labyrinthine structure that was his new home. Past trompe l’oeil ceilings they ran, past the marble busts of famed primadonnas and patrons, past the statue of a man with a woman dressed in spring roses in his arms; past the oil paintings gleaming under the light.

 

Pearl turned to rose turned to gold, and their footsteps pitter-pattered in staccato echoes across the domed oculus. Jaehyun led them up the staircase, past staff that he waved quick greetings to, and then down the side of the balcony, counting out the golden plaques on the doors to the different boxes.

 

_ One, three, five _ , seven. They found the box giving them to closest view of the stage, and then slipped in, and it’s as if Sicheng suddenly fell into another world. Beneath them, the stage was lit up in ghostly blue, and women in white gossamer billowed around to a sad and eerie tune as Madame Jung’s stark red-clothed form beat out the rhythm with a cane.

 

He felt transfixed in his seat, watching as the sole man in the center of the circle began to dance in a frenzy, leaping and spinning till the swarm of white-veiled figures engulfed his form, and then the stage lights cut suddenly to black. Sicheng jumped in his seat and Jaehyun’s arm steadied his motion.

 

“What was that?” he asked.

 

Jaehyun whispered his response back. “The opera ghost.”

 

The next moment, the lights came back on as Sicheng gasped, his grip finding Jaehyun’s hand, and then Jaehyun is laughing at him.

 

“Relax,” he said. “There’s no opera ghost, I’m just kidding.”

 

A bit miffed, Sicheng had twisted in his seat to shove at Jaehyun’s shoulder for frightening him so, before he stopped. “What’s that?” he asked, drawing back from Jaehyun but his hand just as tight on his forearm, back to the stage now.

 

Jaehyun’s look of merriment slid off his face like butter off of a hot knife. “What’s what?”

 

“Behind you,” Sicheng’s voice shook, squeezing his eyes shut, as if that would hide the spectre with the white-masked face he saw hovering over the railing. “In the next box down.”

 

Jaehyun laughed. “There’s nothing there in box five, Sicheng, you can look.”

 

Sicheng shook his head. “I refuse."

 

“Really,” Jaehyun insisted. “There’s really nothing.”

 

“Really?” Sicheng asked, eyes still closed.

 

“I’m serious,” Jaehyun replied. “Come on, open your eyes.”

 

Sicheng did so, and surely enough, there was nothing in box five. Yet he could have sworn he saw something in there just moments before-- a silhouette, a shadow,  _ the opera ghost _ , Jaehyun’s earlier words supplied.

 

The music had started up again, and Jaehyun nudged him on the shoulder. “Let’s just watch the rest of the rehearsals.”

 

They did so, Sicheng’s mind half on the loveliness and heartbreak in the lines of the dancers’ limbs and half on the fleeting phantom he swore he saw despite Jaehyun’s insistence it was but a figment of his imagination.

 

They descended from the box when Madame Jung briskly clapped her hands and then announced the conclusion of the rehearsal, and Jaehyun took Sicheng into the theater, threading their way amongst the throngs of white tulle, and then clambered onstage to tug on his mother’s sleeve.

 

Sicheng followed gingerly after him, watching as the seats disappeared into darkness from his vantage point. The stage lights illuminating his figure struck him as still as a statue, the thought of all the eyes that must have followed the lines of this very stage upon which he stood left him breathless.

 

“Madame Jung,” he said suddenly. “Is there any chance I can learn to act and dance?”

 

The elder woman looked almost surprised by his request. “Why so, Sicheng?”

 

“It looks so lovely,” he said. “I want to learn.” He wanted to be seen on this stage; he wanted to feel the adrenaline of performing, he wanted to be lovely and loved.

 

She hesitated a moment, and then nodded. “I’ll consider.”

 

Sicheng felt a smile spread across his face and he nodded again, hesitating for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her waist to hug her.


	2. the unseen genius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be updated on the first of every month, so please anticipate!!

**_= Three years later =_ **

 

“Sicheng!” Jaehyun’s voice cut through his consciousness.

 

He couldn’t remember what had happened; just that one moment, he was spinning under bright limelights in a pas de deux, eyes watching him silently, adoring him. Warm hands rested on his waist, and a face half-melted into shadow belonged to his partner. Only his lips and glittering eyes were not concealed by the white mask he wore. He spun again, and again, and his partner let go of him as he leapt across the stage and spun and then--

 

The call of his name, and all the glamour melted away like a spring thaw. Sicheng landed a fouette clumsily as he blinked himself awake, gasping for breath the same way one might do so if they had just surfaced from drowning. The darkness around him seemed boundless; Jaehyun’s voice cut through it the same way that the dim light of a lantern had as Sicheng’s eyes adjusted to this new setting.

 

“Sicheng, what on earth are you doing,” Jaehyun’s voice was as thick as gruel with sleep, not yet lucid. “Mama will have our heads if she knew this happened again. Why do you always creep out of bed at such hours to go dance? It has happened regularly ever since she began to teach us.”

 

Sicheng squatted down, scooting himself along the stage till he felt the cool metal of the extinguished stage lights and slipped between them until the edge of the stage. Leaning on his hands, he slid down off the stage, the distance to the ground now a familiar distance to traverse, following the faint flicker of light down the aisles of the auditorium to Jaehyun. The elder’s face was cast in more shadow than light, his eyes appearing sunken-in, looking like one of the paintings from an Old Master of the woman cradling a skull in her lap as she watched a smoking flame. Like the shadowed dance partner Sicheng waltzed with night after night. He found himself saying, “I don’t know. Every night, when I sleep, it’s always the same. The mirror in the corner of my room starts glowing with a copper light, and a passageway opens up, and a hand reaches out of the shadows for me to take. It belongs to a man or boy, perhaps our age or a bit older. I can only see his eyes and his mouth and his posture. Otherwise, he’s cloaked and masked.”

 

“Sicheng, you must have been dreaming,” Jaehyun insisted as they made their way out of the theater, lantern casting ghostly shadows against the walls that had turned silver in moonlight. “Stories like that can’t come true.”

 

“I swear it is,” Sicheng argued as they walked. “I could feel the drafts from within the basements and catacombs of the opera house as he led me to the stage, and then he finally speaks to me. ‘Let us dance,’ he says, and we do. The stage floods with light, and I can almost hear the orchestra swell.”

 

“You’re talking in riddles,” Jaehyun unlocks the door to the apartments below. “And it’s not like you at all, Sicheng.”

 

Sicheng shook his head passionately. "Jaehyun, I know he's here. It's not just a dream. Didn't Mama used to despair at my dancing? And look at me now."

 

They descended the stairs, Jaehyun mustering up a half-smile. "You give the ghost in your dreams too much credit," he said in an undertone as he unlocked the apartment door and let them in. "It came through your own practice and passion."

 

"Passions that are apparently unchecked," came a wry voice from the sofa, switching on the gas lamp. "Considering the fact you snuck out to dance again. Sicheng, you are near perfect in your dancing already. What need do you have of practicing at midnight?"

 

Jaehyun stopped short and Sicheng nearly walked directly into him. "Mama," he stuttered.

 

Madame Jung rose. "You boys had me worried sick," she said, fussing over them both. "Go sleep, boys. I will not have you grousing over the breakfast table in the morning."

 

With an obedient chorus of "Yes, Mama," they shuffled down to their rooms, Jaehyun pausing in the middle of the hall to let out a jaw-cracking yawn. Once he'd finished, he turned to Sicheng. "You know, this reminds me of that book you gave me when we first became friends."

 

"Little Lotte," Sicheng replied almost automatically. "And at night when she's asleep in her bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in her head."

 

Jaehyun nodded. "That's the one. Ah, perhaps you’re just dreaming of the book again." With one more yawn, the sound mirroring the creak of the door, he had waved to Sicheng and mumbled a bleary "Good night" before shutting his door behind himself.

 

With a sigh, Sicheng ventured into his own room, but instead of slipping under the covers, he went to the mirror on the far side of the space. In the darkness, the only things visible were the whites of his eyes; everything else had faded to shadow.

 

Gingerly, he lifted his hands and braced then against the side of the mirror. He tightened his fingers around the edges, and then tensed his shoulders up, tugging back with bated breath.

 

Nothing.

 

The frame didn't budge a single inch, yet earlier that night and all his previous ones, it had swung open so easily, so silently.  _ Perhaps it was just a recurring dream after all, _ he thought to himself. He leaned his head against it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the sensation of the cool glass beneath his cheek, sighing.

 

He straightened again, blinking wearily at the mirror before he turned away, crawling into bed.

 

The next morning, over a breakfast of bread and cheese that indeed the two teenagers had groused over, Sicheng suddenly interjected, “Jaehyun, do I have any other friends here besides you?”

 

Jaehyun squinted at him. “Ten. Minghao. Xiao. Jieqiong. Junhui.” The list came out sounding rather sharp, ostensibly due to sleep deprivation. “Why are you asking me?”

 

Sicheng took a bite of bread crust, chewing on it carefully. “I was wondering something.”

 

“Oh, great, a dramatic pause,” Jaehyun mumbled, tearing the bread into chunks and shoving one bite into his mouth. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

 

Blinking at his best friend, Sicheng shrugged, thinking. Minghao and Junhui were too tall. Jieqiong was too short. Xiao was around the height of the mystery figure, but the face, or what Sicheng saw of it, didn’t match.

 

Something tugged at the back of his mind, one of those half-dreams that he couldn’t distinguish from reality, and he sighed as he shuts his eyes, letting his mind wander.

 

Fingertips pressed up against one another across the amber-tinted glass.

 

Starry eyes and a boyish smile, a head full of dark brown hair and a stocky physique that was shorter than Sicheng himself.

 

The tinkling of a music box, whimsical, a ballerina cradling the moon in her arms.

 

The singing that echoed down below the ground, booming arias and soothing lullabies,  _ made for him, just for him, _ chanted a whisper in his mind.

 

“Sicheng?” Jaehyun asked, before leaning over the table and snapping his fingers at his friend’s face.

 

Sicheng startled, eyes blinking open and chair scooting back several centimeters. “What?”

 

“Do you hear that?” Jaehyun whispered, grabbing onto his hand.

 

“Hear what?” Sicheng asked, wetting his lips.

 

“That,” Jaehyun responded.

 

Jaehyun’s complexion had just enough rosy undertones to it to miss out on being called a pallor, but now it thoroughly crossed the line into that territory, his face drained of any and all color, even his lips paling. From around them welled a soft melody, as if muffled through doors and floors.

 

_ I know you, _

_ I walked with you once upon a dream... _

 

The voice was rich, deep and dark, and Sicheng felt those copper-and-shadow memories stirring up within his chest at the sound of it.

 

_ I know you, _

_ That look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam... _

 

“The opera ghost…” Jaehyun trailed off in horror, wide brown eyes finding Sicheng’s own and holding tight onto his hands. “Oh god, the opera ghost is real.”

 

_ And I know it's true _

_ That visions are seldom all they seem… _

 

Jaehyun’s hands were clammy and cold in his, but Sicheng felt more soothed by the lovely tone and melody than anything else. Something in his mind told him it was intuition and recognition that made it so.

 

_ But if I know you, _

_ I know what you'll do… _

 

“Sicheng?” Jaehyun whimpered. “Sicheng, I’m scared.”

 

_ You'll love me at once, _

_ The way you did once upon a dream. _

 

“Don’t be frightened,” Sicheng whispered back, squeezing Jaehyun’s hand.

 

“How could I not?” Jaehyun’s voice rose in pitch, and the song cuts off abruptly. “The opera ghost is real, Sicheng, what if we die???”

 

“We won’t,” Sicheng replied, though he reached around to clasp Jaehyun in a hug as the elder began to sob in earnest distress. “Let’s go find Mama.”

 

Jaehyun stumbled out of his seat and then practically tore himself from Sicheng’s grasp as he bolted for the door, dragging him right after. Out of the depths of the opera house he ran, Sicheng keeping up only on account of his lankier build, Jaehyun never daring to even slow down till the daylight touched him, and he flung his arms around his mother’s waist, crying into her shoulder.

 

Madame Jung, to her credit, soothed Jaehyun skillfully without entertaining the credence of his panic, and Sicheng watched impassively as she did so, feeling unreasonably calm given the sheer terror Jaehyun exhibited on his face.

 

“Jaehyun, don’t cry,” Madame Jung cooed, slowly brushing a hand through his hair. “Everything will be alright. It’s nothing, probably just a phonogram someone left on, or else someone singing in the dormitories above us.”

 

“It sounded so loud,” Jaehyun sniffled.

 

“We’re underground, and there’s plenty of rooms for the music to echo through,” Madame Jung replied, eyes flickering up to meet Sicheng’s for a moment. There was something unreadable behind them, but he didn’t have the time to identify it before she was focusing back calming Jaehyun down.

 

Eventually, he had stopped crying, though his grip on Sicheng’s hand was tight as she sent them to the dressing room to get changed for dance class that day, and he stuck that much closer to Sicheng’s side as they pulled on their belts and tights and the soft leather shoes, elbows jabbing into Sicheng’s arm or waist every now and then. Sicheng let him; it was evident that this had shaken him badly.

 

It took all of one month for Jaehyun to forget his fear of the voice; all of one month for him to alter within his memory to suit his mother's rationalizations.

 

Thus began the rumors.

 

**_= Six Months Later =_ **

 

Children, especially those on the brink of turning into adults, are often prone to hyperbole and foolhardiness, believing they have something to prove either to themselves or to their peers. Jaehyun and Sicheng are no different. They prank the prima ballerina, Miss Jennie Kim, during the spring production of Swan Lake. They giggle and pinch each other during instruction time, trying to escape Madame Jung's eagle-eyed gaze and reprimands. They recruit a gang of equally intrepid friends on their endeavours, some same-aged kids also enrolled in the ballet classes or the theater troupe.

 

Perhaps most pivotally, Jaehyun begins the story of the Opera Ghost. He describes the song that it sang for Sicheng. He calls it a lonely and starving musical genius who dwells in the catacombs beneath the Opera House. The next time the story circulates back, it is that of a solitary ghost mourning his lost love. Then it shifts into something more menacing when Yuqi, one of the younger chorus girls, claimed to have seen a lurking shadow in box number 5. The Opera Ghost becomes more sinister. Like yellow parchment is his skin. A great black hole served as the nose that never grew. The story spreads like mold across a loaf of bread, shifting into strange new colors till it is so distorted that Sicheng cannot discern any hints of the original tale of the lovely music drifting up through their rooms from beneath the floor.

 

That is how all stories evolve-- in one poorly executed game of telephone, where the message becomes weaker and weaker over time, over degrees of separation.

 

"Telephone is boring," Ten whines, kicking back his feet. "Let's play something else."

 

"What do you suggest then?" Someone else asks. They’re all huddled together in the dormitory on the first level of basement, a dozen or so young teenagers crowded across a space of three beds and all the floor room in between them.

 

Ten’s answering grin was devilish. “Truth or dare?”

 

Immediately there’s shouts of both concurrence and disagreement. (Kun might have yelled, “That’s even worse! We have rehearsals all day tomorrow.”)

 

Satisfied, Ten rocks back onto his heels. “Kun. You go first. Truth or dare?”

 

Wide brown eyes meet Ten’s, and then circles around the cluster. When it became evident no one would help him, Kun says, “Truth.”

 

“I heard from Bambam,” Ten declares with a broad smile, pointing to each person in turn. “Who heard from Jaehyun, who heard from Sicheng, that you like someone in his room.”

 

“I don’t,” Kun immediately interjects.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Ten waggles his finger. “You picked truth.”

 

“Then I’m switching over to dare,” Kun retorts defiantly. “No way I’m telling  _ you _ of all people, Ten.”

 

Ten sniffs in mock offense. “How dare you. Lick the bedpost.”

 

“Disgusting,” Kun says, but he does it anyways.

 

With that, they fall into the game. Ten admits readily to having hated Jaehyun at first. Jaehyun fires back that Ten was an annoying brat when he first joined the corps de ballet. Lisa parades around in Bambam’s dance belt to raucous laughter. Bambam prances around in her leotard to equal effect.

 

Then it was Sicheng’s turn, choosing dare, and Roseanne is staring him down in a way that makes him shiver. Her gaze promises nothing good in store for him. “Stay for an hour in box 5,” she finally says.

 

“Are you crazy?” Kun says.

 

“You’ve lost it,” Jaehyun interrupts.

 

“Choose something else,” says Yiyang.

 

Sicheng shifts off his feet, which were numb and well on their way to falling asleep under the weight of his body. He would have been reluctant to carry out Roseanne’s dare, but they were all trying to come to his defense, urging her to choose another dare. It makes him feel as though they thought he would be too frightened to do it.

 

“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll do it.”

 

Roseanne herself looks rather surprised. “You sure?”

 

Sicheng nods. “Yeah. Someone keep track of the time and come get me when I'm done. I'm not scared."

 

Everyone glances between themselves and then Ten shrugs. "Suit yourself."

 

Sicheng stands and dusts off his pajamas. "I'm going."

 

"Good luck," a grim chorus comes from behind him.

 

The opera house is always a bit ominous at night. Sicheng might have easily been the most fearless of the children, on account of having been touched by tragedy so early in his life, but even he walks carefully, as if afraid that the shadows could awaken. He slowly ascends the staircase and paces down the carpeted corridor, reading off the placards in front of the doors. The numbers count down in twos by odd numerals till he finally stands in front of box five.

 

Sicheng takes a deep breath and then pushes open the door to the box, stepping in rapidly and then letting the door swing shut behind him. A subtle click, and then all is silent but his own breathing.

 

By the sensation of touch alone, he finds a seat and maneuvers himself into it, bringing his knees up to his chest. The dark might be frightening to some, but Sicheng merely feels bored. His breathing evens out, and he's about to doze off before he hears a soft huff. A sound like scurrying. A few thuds, and a warm presence beside him.

 

Sicheng jolts awake, a scream dying in his throat. He can't breathe, he's trying not to make any movements. He just knows something or someone is in the box with him. He hopes it leaves soon.

 

The dark hides any possible clues to the identity of his mysterious companion, and Sicheng bites down on his own knee to prevent his panic from overwhelming him.

 

He doesn't expect a soft, shy voice to mumble out, "Hi."

 

Objectively speaking, the voice is completely unthreatening. That doesn't prevent Sicheng from making a sound halfway between a gasp and a scream, though, crowding against the arm of the chair farthest away from the source of the words.

 

The dark says, “Huh?”, the word pitching up quizzically. “Are you scared of me?”

 

Despite his terror Sicheng is affronted. “No, of course not,” he scoffs, trying to relax his form despite being curled up like a pillbug.

 

“Don’t be,” says the voice, a bit plaintively.

 

It sounds so wistful, like a lonely little child. Sicheng imagines that he must have sounded like that after his year at the orphanage. The thought of that makes him swallow around the rest of his fear, though he tries to keep a wary edge to his voice. “Who even are you?” he demands.

 

"Don't you remember me?" There's an edge of hurt in its voice.  _ "I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…" _

 

When the voice sings, it transitions from childish to elegantly beautiful. Sicheng makes a small "oh" of recognition. "That was you?"

 

"We danced together," says the voice. "You and I."

 

"What's your name?" Sicheng asks.

 

The voice pauses for a moment before it says. "I'm Taeil. I'm fourteen."

 

"I'm Sicheng. I'm twelve," he offers in return.

 

"I know," the voice says. "I saw you the day you arrived."

 

Sicheng thinks about the ghostly visage in the box adjacent to the one he and Jaehyun were seated in. He thinks back nearly four years, down this very corridor. "Was it you in this box that day?"

 

"Yes," Taeil affirms.

 

"You scared us. You scared Jaehyun with your song, too. He went crying to Mama," Sicheng hears a slight edge of accusation in his tone. He switches topics. "Why do you hide away in here?"

 

Taeil sighs and then says, "I can't tell you. It's dangerous for you to know."

 

"Dangerous? You're only fourteen," Sicheng mentally scoffs at the idea. "How could you be dangerous? And if you've been hiding in this opera house for the last three years, you would have been eleven at the very least when you came here," he rapidly calculates. The tutors at the Vicomte's manor had always marvelled at his quick wit. It seemed like literal lifetimes ago. "That's not dangerous."

 

"No, really, I am," Taeil says insistently. There's a tightness in his voice, a hint of frantic panic. "I can't tell you why or how, but trust me."

 

"I don't even know what you look like." Sicheng hears his own petulance. "You could really be a ghost like they say for all I know."

 

Taeil exhales and there's some rustling before Sicheng feels something warm land heavily on his shoulder and then snake clumsily down his arm, catching around his elbow before sliding into his palm. Fingers intertwine with his. Warmth, maybe a bit clammy, but a steady pulse thrums beneath his fingertips. "Do I feel like a ghost?"

 

There's an edge of teasing in Taeil's voice. "I don't know. This could all just be a crazy dream for all I know." Sicheng thinks back to what Taeil said earlier.  _ We danced together, you and I.  _ He remembers those recurring dreams he had where he sleepwalk. Where he dreamt of a pas de doux but woke to find himself dancing across the stage with the partner he envisioned gone. Had that been mere dreams? Or was it actually just Taeil?

 

"Maybe it is," Taeil hums in agreement. "At least, to your brother and to your friends, that's what I need to stay."

 

"Just a dream?" Sicheng questions. "But if people knew, then there wouldn't be any more reason for them to be frightened of you, would there?"

 

Taeil's hand feels heavy and warm in his own. "Sicheng, it's better if they don't know. You knowing is already dangerous."

 

"Taeil, what's so dangerous?" Sicheng repeats. There's impatience bleeding into his voice. "Why do you constantly let people know about your presence if getting to know you is so bad for us?"

 

Taeil mumbles something, and the pressure on his hand increases-- not painfully, but firmly as if he were holding onto Sicheng's hand out of fear it would disappear. Sicheng finds it silly that a boy known as the Opera Ghost would treat  _ him _ like he was the one who would turn to mist and float away like Giselle.

 

"What?" Sicheng says, softer.

 

Taeil releases his hand, and it's Sicheng this time who tries to hold on. "It's because you were so lonely. And sad," he sighs. "You had Jaehyun and Madame Jung but you always pretended to be happy because you didn't want them to think you were ungrateful. I wanted to be your friend."

 

All those secret tears, all those late hours in the dance studio after everyone else had left. Someone had noticed them after all. "Thank you."

 

Taeil sounds surprised, of all things. "What for?"

 

"For dancing with me. For being my friend. For trusting me," he said.

 

Taeil hums again and they lapse into a companionable silence before Taeil asks, "What will you tell your friends?"

 

Sicheng has relaxed back into his chair. "About what?"

 

"About me."

 

"If you don't want me to," Sicheng thinks out loud, "then I won't tell them anything."

 

"Nothing happened here."

 

"Nothing happened here," Sicheng agrees.

 

There's a hand brushing his hair off his forehead in a monotonous and soothing rhythm. "You were just dreaming."

 

"Yeah," Sicheng mumbles. Suddenly, his eyelids feel heavy. "Just a dream."

 

Nearly too soft for him to hear, Taeil says, "Tell them nothing, but please remember me."

 

Sicheng blinks himself awake at the insistent knocking on the door to the box. "Come out now, Sicheng," he hears Jaehyun. "It's been an hour."

 

Sicheng gets to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. A yawn escapes him, silent but jaw-cracking. He cracks his neck and then rubs his eyes, padding towards the exit as the voices outside turn to murmurs.

 

Someone beyond the door lets out a cry of dismay. "You don't think the opera ghost killed him, do you?"

 

There's a few seconds of worried chatter outside before a louder voice chimes in. "The opera ghost isn't real," Kun says soothingly. "Sicheng probably just dozed off. Stop being so scared."

 

"But the opera ghost  _ is _ real, we've all seen or heard him," someone else insists. "Are we all liars or something now?"

 

He fumbles for the doorknob and twists it as voices raise. Before the argument could escalate further, Sicheng pushes open the door of the theater box, an oil lantern scattering light into the space. Immediately, the gaggle outside flock to him and tug him out of the box. "Sicheng! You're alive!" Lisa exclaims.

 

"Told you all there wasn't an opera ghost," Kun says smugly, with the air of someone used to being right, and Ten shoves at him goodnaturedly in response with a scoff.

 

"Ask Sicheng first," Jaehyun retorts before turning to the boy in question excitedly. "How was it? Did you see anything? Hear anything?"

 

Sicheng rubs his eyes and shakes his head. "No. There was nothing. It was really boring, actually, I think I fell asleep."

 

The group migrates through the corridor and down the staircase. "So there was no opera ghost?" Yiyang asks.

 

Sicheng shakes his head. "I told you, there was nothing. Just me, alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!!


	3. unchanging as the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! Sorry for posting a full two weeks late, I was rather busy with work and with _This Holy Redemption_ TTATT. I'm not sure of the posting schedule for the next chapter of this fic, but hopefully I'll be able to return to my schedule of posting on the first! However, I'm still trying to decide, cause the next few weeks are gonna be really busy-- I'm going off to college!!
> 
> Without further ado, here is chapter 3 of _Music of the Night_

**_= Seven Years Later =_ **

 

He had gone up to Madame Jung's office, intending to ask her if he should audition for the part of Hyacinthus in the new opera of  _ Orpheus and Eurydice _ when he hears the voices coming from within the room and pauses.

 

"Madame Jung, I understand that you are the director of this theater?" came a voice, deep and slightly nasal, muffled from behind the wooden door. "And of course, Monsieur Park. Owner of the Palais Garnier. We've spoken before, no?"

 

"Yes," Sicheng hears his adoptive mother affirm.

 

"I am Monsieur Lee, and I am here on behalf of my client to inquire into the theater. You must have met him before, yes? Monsieur Kim.”

 

“We’ve had several meetings over the past few months,” Madame Jung demurs.

 

“You may find our terms here--" there's the rustling of papers, and for a moment, Sicheng can hear his own heart thundering in his chest.

 

“Renovations and inspections, a new staff,” Madame Jung reads.

 

“To be compensated for handsomely, I must add,” says Monsieur Lee.

 

"Well, Monsieur Lee," drawls another voice, and he recognises Monsieur Park, the owner of the theater. "This theater is very dear to me, and I'm afraid I cannot give you an immediate affirmation."

 

"We will offer you twice what anyone else will. I will even disclose to you that under new management, this theater may find itself more lofty patrons," says Monsieur Lee. "I am of the opinion that you will find our offer of its purchase very agreeable, Monsieur."

 

Sicheng bolts upright so quickly, he nearly hits his head on the door frame.  _ Purchase? _

 

He doesn't hear the rest of the statement, just turns on his heels and backs down the stairs. His mind a blur, Sicheng raced back down the corridors and stairwells to his room, the once-insurmountable distance being whittled away to nothing. He locked the door and paced to the mirror. With fluid urgency, he lifts his hands and braces then against the side of the mirror. He tightens his fingers around the edges, and then tenses his shoulders up, tugging back with bated breath.

 

Nothing.

 

The mirror would not move for him, but the storm in his mind wouldn't quiet for anyone but the man behind it. He slides down into a kneeling position, leaning against the glass that fogged up whenever he exhaled. "Taeil," Sicheng sighs. He feels a yawning hole in his chest, and within it brews panic and something darker, but he tamps it down, taking a deep breath. "I overheard Madame Jung today, speaking with the old theater owners. They're probably going to sell this place. What are we going to do?"

 

Sicheng thinks he can hear rustling behind the mirror, and in the next moment, there's the telltale pattering of footsteps. He shifts as the mirror swings open, Taeil emerging from the darkness within. "Sicheng, I know."

 

He doesn’t question how Taeil does, continuing to ramble, "They might replace Mama with new people they bring in. We might have to move, and what will become of your singing lessons then?" Sicheng frets. He begins to chew on the nail of his thumb, a bad habit borne by stress. Audition results, the prelude to a big show, even back at the orphanage, all that nervousness escaped him in that form. The curve of his thumbnail had long become jagged beyond repair as a result.

 

"They mentioned renovations and inspections. What if they decide to inspect the theater and find you? We can't let that happen."

 

Taeil sits down beside him, crossing his legs, and he reaches for Sicheng's hands, enclosing one in his own leather-clad hand. "Don’t worry so much,” he chides. “We'll figure out a way. Promise."

 

"What will you do?" Sicheng tilts his head down at Taeil, trying to read those glittering eyes from behind the recesses of his mask.

 

Taeil gives him a lopsided grin in return, promising havoc.

 

**_= Six Months Later =_ **

 

In retrospect, the handover was a hell of a lot less dramatic and climatic than anyone expected. Most of their staff, save for Monsieur Park himself, remained. Taeil was left alone. Nothing major occurred, save for the transfer of names from Park to Kim.  _ Orpheus  _ was brilliant, Sicheng had gotten his coveted role, and now they were working on a new drama.

 

Then came Jungwoo.

 

Really, Sicheng doesn’t think the entire matter was Jungwoo’s fault; but his arrival indeed had marked the end of an era. He was an actor that the ever-elusive Monsieur Kim had recommended, having received glowing reviews abroad in London. Jungwoo was rather unassuming upon first glance, a fairly pretty face and a habit of speaking  _ sotto voce _ , but he acted well enough, and was certainly viable to take over roles after Sehun, their former male lead, left for better opportunities in Rome.

 

That in and of itself wasn’t all that remarkable, but its implications, and what came after, were-- Jungwoo was the first of the many people that Monsieur Kim would seek to bring in over the next several months, from custodial staff to costume designers to stage directors and playwrights and a new financial manager, Monsieur Seo.

 

Sicheng thinks back to that first day they were introduced to Jungwoo. The senior corps de ballet members had been rehearsing, Sicheng paired up with Yiyang for the pastoral pas de deux in the opening act of  _ Giselle _ , the two of them marking out their movements, and a clerk’s assistant had come in and whispered in Madame Jung’s ear for a brief moment, breaking her concentration on her critique of the class.

 

She’d muttered something back, and then the clerk had darted out again. The pianist stopped playing, notified by Madame Jung’s signal, just as a tall man stepped in through the door.

 

The rest of the class had fallen still as the music cut off in its entirety.

 

“Everyone, as you might know,” Madame Jung had began, “We were on the search for a new primo uomo ever since Sehun left. We’ve found one. Please welcome Kim Jungwoo to our cast.”

 

A smattering of polite applause. Jungwoo smiling and waving serenely.

 

That was the first sign things were changing, as surely as the weather darkened and the days grew shorter, and the trees had lost their foliage. 

 

**_= 1 Year Later =_ **

 

As soon as Sicheng opens the door of the theater, Jaehyun springs upon him as if he'd developed some sort of sixth sense as to his best friend's location at all times and happens to know that at precisely 37 past six in the morning and nine seconds into the minute, he would push open the side entrance to the theater.

 

“Jungwoo quit!” he crows, pulling Sicheng into the lobby, where all around them, the cast and crew and managers flurry around in chaos akin to that of snow in a blizzard, Jaehyun's words not only echoing around in the vaulted marble ceiling but through the mouths of every soul in the building--  _ Jungwooquitjungwooquitjungwooquit _ .

 

Monsieur Kim, the theater owner, finally makes an appearance in the form of a gangly figure with a pinched, harelike face. As they walk under the landing on which the duo conversed, Sicheng catches a string of his conversation with his assistant, the Monsieur Lee who Sicheng had eavesdropped on nearly two years ago--

 

“Now that Jungwoo quit, who on earth is going to play as Hamlet?” he hears Monsieur Lee's lower voice.

 

“That's the very problem, I don't know!” exclaims M. Kim. “I don't even think he has an understudy.”

 

There's a sigh. “Do you think Soojung might have any clue as to who could replace him?”

 

“No harm in asking,” is the last thing Sicheng hears before Jaehyun takes him into the theater proper. Around them, just as much chaos reigns as there was outside-- perhaps even more due to the smaller area of the theater. The stage sets are half-hoisted into their ready positions, abandoned to hang there in a rather precarious situation, and the cast is divided between standing at the edge of the stage, murmuring to each other, and what seems like backstage, if the shouts from behind the curtains were any indication.

 

Sicheng turns to Jaehyun. “Why did Jungwoo quit?” he asks, the tail end of his question trailing off as they approach the center of the theater, where the beautiful crystal chandelier that had been the centerpiece of the opera house lay in a mangled wreck in the audience seats.

 

That solves the mystery of the crew's location and of Jungwoo’s sudden departure at the very least-- the former are bustling about, sweeping glass away from the aisles carefully as Jaehyun and Sicheng make their way down, someone dragging in the rookie financial manager Monsieur Seo as they tried to calculate the losses in a rapid fire of financial jargon and numerals.

 

There’s a flurry, and from a side door emerges Jungwoo, brows pinched together. His sandy hair is in disarray, and he’s taken off the Hamlet costume, now donning a tawny plaid overcoat atop his street clothing. Despite the general aura of rage that emanates from him, his outfit is impeccably pressed and tucked.

 

“Until you deal with whatever the hell is going on,” he takes a deep breath and begins, face pinched, gesturing to the broken chandelier. Somehow, there’s that flair inherent to Italian prima donnas in his bearing and his voice, undoubtedly the thing he’d been scouted for in the first place. “I won’t be doing  _ any _ more shows with you. In the past five months, there’s been more incidents on this stage than I’ve had in my five years working in London,” Jungwoo continues.

 

“Please, Monsieur,” Monsieur Seo begins, though Jungwoo throws him an icy glare that cuts off the end of the sentence.

 

“As I was saying, before being rudely interrupted,” Jungwoo sniffs in outrage, “The incidents here have been too many to count. Costumes coming apart during rehearsals! Sets being tampered with! And now, this! Absolutely outrageous!” he points accusingly at the chandelier. “The management of this place is horrendous,” he declares. “Consider my contract with you ended.”

 

With that, Sicheng watches in fascination as Jungwoo raises a sheaf of papers in his right hand, then tossing them at Monsieur Seo. The sheets flutter down to the ground listlessly, and Jungwoo shoulders past a gawking Sicheng and Jaehyun with an affected scoff before he lets the door of the theater slam behind them.

 

Jaehyun lets out a startled bark of a laugh, rather bemused and impressed. “Holy shit. That was better than any show.”

 

Sicheng nods in agreement. “Holy shit indeed.”

 

As satisfying as that was to watch, however, there would now be the very prominent problem of finding who could play the male lead of  _ The Tragedy of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark _ . Jungwoo forwent an understudy per his contract, and the show would be in a month’s time, with all the tickets having sold out. The cast is gathered around the stage, purportedly to offer input as the managers of the theater debate the fate of the show.

 

Monsieur Seo wants to cancel. Monsieur Kim wants to postpone. And Monsieur Lee wants to find an understudy in time-- the show must go on, he declares. Someone accuses another of being motivated by profits. Someone else says that they can’t put on a shoddy performance for the investors.

 

Into the midst of the sharp argument that appears to bear the inevitability of a shouting match, Madame Jung steps forth. "Let Dong Sicheng read the parts for you," she says, nodding towards Sicheng, who, wide eyed, takes a step back instead, absolutely floored by Madame Jung’s recommendation.

 

"A chorus boy?" Monsieur Lee raises a brow at him dubiously. "He looks a little too green for the part, doesn't he?"

 

"I turned twenty last month," Sicheng says.

 

"His age and appearance doesn't matter here," Madame Jung had said. "He has been well taught."

 

There’s a knowing glint in Madame Jung’s eye.

 

"Well then," Monsieur Kim nods. "Go on, boy."

 

A moments’ hesitation, and slowly, Sicheng falls to his knees, clutching at his side, lips parted in a gasp. “O, I die, Horatio,” he says.

 

The theater stage is silent, and Sicheng’s line comes out sounding too stiff, too exaggerated. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jaehyun give him a nod of encouragement, and then the actor for Horatio, Jongin, comes to take his place beside him, a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

 

Sicheng continues on, the words flowing more naturally now, a halting speech made by a dying man. “The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England; but I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras.”

 

**_= Opening Night =_ **

 

“She has my dying voice,” he says, biting down on his lip, eyes fluttering as he slumps forward, Jongin’s arm gathering his limp form back from falling to the stage. With shaking hands, Sicheng reaches up in the choreographed motion to rest his hands on Jongin’s shoulders. “Do tell her, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited.”

 

Jongin’s face crumples, and he lets out a sob.

 

The eyes in the audience watch them, the stage lights prickle Sicheng’s skin with the heat. Behind them, the forms of the fellow cast members lie, as still as the statues in a graveyard, casualties of Sicheng’s duel with Jaebeom-- Laertes. “The rest is silence.”

 

Sicheng lets out a shaky gasp, lets his eyes roll shut, lets his hand slip from Jongin’s shoulder, the other lowering him to the stage in such a way that it appears Sicheng has fallen from his grasp.

 

One, two, three sobs from Jongin, clutching Sicheng’s hand and crouched over his prone form. “ Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

 

From offstage is the sound of thumping, surrounding Sicheng’s senses.

 

“Why does the drum come hither?”

 

Seulgi marches in as Fortinbras, Princess of Norway, and she stops short, as if pulled up by an invisible string at the sight of all their prone forms. “Where is this sight?”

 

Jongin’s voice is thick, tearful. “What is it ye would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.”

 

Seulgi draws in a breath, taken aback. “O proud death, what feast is toward in thine eternal cell, that thou so many princes at a shot so bloodily hast struck?”

 

The ambassador enters and exchanges words with Jongin before he turns back to Seulgi again, offering to explain to her the tragedies that led to her ascension to the Danish throne. Seulgi accepts, a great deal of solemnity in her posture.

 

“Let four captains bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, for he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally. And, for his passage, the soldiers' music and the rites of war speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this becomes the field, but here shows much amiss,” She says.

 

Sicheng feels arms bearing his body up into the air.

 

“Go, bid the soldiers shoot.”

 

As the coolness and darkness of the backstage wings engulf him, Sicheng hears twenty-one resounding booms, one after another. He’s set down, and he watches as the bodies are carried off one by one, Seulgi and Jongin stand center stage, facing the audience. Seulgi’s hands are clasped in front of her, head bowed; whilst Jongin’s eyes follow everyone offstage before following after the final body, that of Laertes.

 

The fifteenth cannon shot rings, and Seulgi pivots from the stage, pacing towards the now-vacant throne room. She kneels on the ground, picking the wine-stained golden crown up, and then takes a seat on the throne.

 

The nineteenth shot sounds as she places the crown upon her head, and then the twentieth as she settles her arms on the throne.

 

Twenty-first, and the curtain falls.

 

For a moment, there is a breath of silence, and then the auditorium roars with resounding applause.

 

“Bravi, bravi, bravissimi!” the theater seems to chant. Sicheng breaks into relieved laughter, turning as he feels a hand clap his shoulder.

 

“You did it!” Jaehyun whoops, dressed as Marcellus, a grin of utter exuberance on his face.

 

“Yeah,” Sicheng smiles, being crowded into the center of a circle of cast members. “I did.”

 

"It was so good," he exclaims. "How did you do it?"

 

Perhaps jokingly, Jaehyun adds: "Was it the opera ghost?"

 

Through all the hubbub, Madame Jung is suddenly at their elbows, pulling Sicheng back towards the stage. “Go on, it’s the curtain call.”

 

Sicheng throws Jaehyun and Madame Jung one last hug before he makes his way on, trying to capture his earlier sense of euphoria, the orchestra swelling in a crescendo and the audience accompanying it with applause as he approaches center stage and then turns, bows.

 

From the audience, a solitary voice shouts, “Bravo!”, and despite its volume, is nearly drowned out. A man stands from his seat as Sicheng himself straightens from his bow, and he catches a glimpse of  golden hair and sharp nose and a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

 

He falters just a moment, before remembering to bow again, and then the entire audience is giving him a standing ovation, the man from before melting into the frenzy of the orchestra and the snowfall of flowers thrown onto the stage.

 

Perhaps he never existed at all, Sicheng thinks as he exits the stage. After all, his first moment of triumph might well be marked by reminiscences of his childhood, and all that had happened to lead him to this moment, all that he had endured and lost.

 

Sicheng is greeted by the trio of theater managers, who similarly gush his praises. He smiles politely through it all, and slips away when he has the chance, converging backstage again with Jaehyun and the rest of his group of friends.

 

"You did wonderfully," Seulgi gushes, the top of her military-style jacket unbuttoned, forehead shiny with sweat.

 

Sicheng smiles back. "Thank you!" He calls.

 

Flower-crowned Jisoo pulls him into a hug, comically aiming a kiss for his cheek that he wriggles away from as Jaebeom barks in mock offense, "Get away from my baby sister!"

 

"Sorry!" He yelps.

 

Madame Jung somehow manages to call order, and everyone files back to their respective dressing rooms, Sicheng eyeing the paper proclaiming "Dong Sicheng" that's been taped over the plaque underneath that had read "Kim Jungwoo" before he twists open the doorknob and steps into the room.

 

He sits down on the vanity, peering at himself in front of the gilded mirror as he daubs away the stage makeup from his face. Without it, his features look softer.

 

There's voices coming down the hall, and Sicheng hums as he brushes back his hair, stiff with gel as it was. From outside, he can make out the voices of one of the managers, and a new one he cannot quite discern.

 

A knock on the door resounds, echoes through the room.

 

"Come in," Sicheng says.

 

The door opens, but instead of one of the managers coming in to ply him with more flattery as Sicheng had anticipated, there's a head of golden hair, outfitted in a suit that Sicheng's eye could tell, from experience, could only be the material and make of an immensely wealthy man.

 

He turns. "You were lovely onstage."

 

Sicheng freezes as the man's face is revealed. Time turns to molasses. His breath is stuck somewhere between his collarbone and his throat, fluttering up his neck the same way butterflies blossomed to life in his ribcage. So the apparition of his past that he had seen in the crowd wasn't merely a trick of his imagination.

 

In front of him stands Yuta, the boy from his childhood he'd lost, eyes glowing, smile near blinding in its brilliance. 

 

Yuta speaks first, breaking the silence in a soft voice. Sicheng can still hear hints of the childish warmth within it. "After-- after your father passed away, I had no clue where my father sent you."

 

Something in his tone is hopeful, expectant. Sicheng finds himself glancing at the arrangement of roses Yuta has in his arms instead.

 

"Why are you here?" Sicheng asks. Something in him feels too scrutinized under Yuta's gaze, as if the elder were searching for the traces of the boy he'd once known that he'd kissed under the willows.

 

Sicheng was no longer that boy.

 

Yuta's smile is back in full force, and Sicheng has become a creature of the theater, of stage lights and gas lamps and the dramatic chiaroscuro of moonlight and shadow. Yuta's smile is like staring into the sun, too bright, too much.

 

"Well, then, Monsieur Dong, you shall be the first to know-- I am now a patron of this theater," Yuta says. “Your performance tonight made the decision easy to make.”

 

“I see,” Sicheng nodded. He wonders if someone could shine this bright without burning himself up, lines of excitement written across his features. Objectively speaking, Yuta had only grown more handsome since the last time they’d seen each other, and something about the nostalgia of his childhood draws him in as much as it repels him, magnetic.

 

There’s a sort of heavy silence that descends upon them, and Yuta’s grin dims in its magnitude second by second.

 

“Well,” Sicheng shifts in his seat, offering him a small smile. “Congratulations, Yuta. Vicomte Nakamoto, thank you for your patronage. I am sure it will come as welcome news to the owners of this theater.”

 

“Thank you,” Yuta says, ducking his head to conceal the return of his smile.

 

Sicheng turns back to the mirror. “I don’t want to detain you from your other evening plans.”

 

“Plans?” Yuta turns to him, and their eyes meet in the mirror, his brow creasing in confusion.

 

Sicheng nods at the roses in his arms. “I’m sure whichever young lady or gentleman who is the recipient of these will be grateful.”

 

Yuta glances at his arms, as if suddenly remembering the weight in them. “But the flowers are for you.”

 

Sicheng doesn’t bother to remain reserved with his shock at the gesture. It feels like a small breath has been punched from his lungs, Yuta’s eyes taking on a new earnestness in the mirror. “You can set them on the counter,” he says.

 

He watches Yuta’s reflection in the mirror as he places them down on an open spot, the faintest hints of his body warmth palpable against Sicheng’s skin. It’s wintertime, but as Yuta brushes back, there’s that faint scent of honeysuckle and grass and sunshine radiating off of him, as if Yuta’s body were made of eternal summer.

 

“I missed you,” Yuta confesses plainly, no embellishments to his statements, nothing but bare honesty.

 

Part of Sicheng wants to repeat the words back, but another reminds him that he is no longer the boy that Yuta misses. He’s like Theseus’s ship-- becoming an orphan had stripped him of all that he was, and in that empty shell of himself, he constructed a stage and filled it with the people of this theater, Madame Jung and Jaehyun and Taeil and all of them.

 

He doesn’t know how Yuta can fit back in without an internal cataclysm, but what scares him the most is how he finds himself reaching out for Yuta anyways as he stands.

 

“Can you wait for me?” he asks Yuta.

 

“Yes,” Yuta nodded. There’s a sense that he’s not talking about the right then and there, or stepping out of the dressing room to wait for Sicheng to swap his stage clothing for his normal ones.  _ I missed you _ .

 

“Let me change, we can go to dinner, and talk of all that’s happened these past twelve years,” Sicheng suggests, softening.

 

Yuta’s eyes meet his in the mirror once more before he nods his assent and turns away. “I’ll call a carriage.”

 

“See you in twenty,” Sicheng calls back.


End file.
